


The Wants of My Heart

by Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion



Series: Angsty Silvergifting (and Other Angsty Celebrimbor Things) [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Celebrimbor's Life is a Tragedy, M/M, No happiness here, Silverfisting, silvergifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 17:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16837411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion/pseuds/Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion
Summary: Tyelp suffers morally and physically in the cell.





	The Wants of My Heart

My heart, my truest love. Where are you again? Have you forgotten your way to me? I am always here, waiting for you, impatient and terrified at once. Oh how I wait for your sweet steps that used to bring me only joy. Your light feet would sound so quiet against the floors in my home, and I would turn my head towards the door and smile in anticipation, because I know, oh I know you would envelop me into your warm, heart-melting embrace and share with me what you’ve found, what you’ve learned, all in that smooth, velvety voice of yours. Sometimes I still expect that, little merry bells ringing in my chest as I see you, until I notice your stern stare, and it squeezes my chest so painfully with realization it becomes difficult to breathe. It is hard not to forget for brief moments, even amidst so much pain. You still have those little habits of yours that I love so much. You bite your bottom lip when you are concerned. You tap the tips of your fingers together when you are frustrated. You play with your hair when you’re thinking, and it is a different color than it was then, a few months ago in what seems now another lifetime, but I assure you, I love your hair all the same, red or blonde, you are beautiful. I often want to tell you how beautiful you are, how much I love you. Maybe sometimes I do; I cannot quite distinguish between dream and reality in this place. I want to hold you whenever I wish, and I want to give you little gifts as I liked to do so long ago, to show my love and appreciation, but I look around and only see empty walls, and nothing to use to make gifts for you. Sometimes I recall what gifts you truly want: not my little things, not the nice flowers that grow along the banks of Glanduin, not my small cards where I tell you how much I love you, not the silks I carefully selected to suit your style and taste, not the silver or gold or mithril I worked with your name on my lips. You want my secrets, as if my heart was not enough for you, as if everything that I am had to belong to you and only you. And then I remember that I hate you, or that’s what I’m trying to convince myself of. I remember that you are not my sweet friend and lover but a menace to everything I know. I remember that our story, decades and decades of love and cooperation and domestic happiness is nothing but a lie. Even the name I’ve spoken so many times, the one I moaned, squirming in rapture, whispered, waking up to lazy happiness, laughed in wine-induced glee - the very name was a cheap trick, a forgery. And yet I love you, and I call you by the only name you gave me. Sometimes I forget where I am, what is happening to me. Forgive me if I am asking you if it’s breakfast time yet or wondering why no one is opening the curtains. I do not mean to return us both to days long past; it’s just that my silly mind insists on going back to the time when I was happy with you. The past is the only time that matters to me now; the present is too painful to even begin to comprehend, and the future is obscure. If, by some miracle, I receive my freedom, how can I live without you? Even the pain you are bringing me is something I can have from you, something you give me, like one of your gifts. I will take it, my dearest love, if that is the only thing you can offer to me. I will never stop loving you, not for a second. So where are you, darling? I hug myself, maybe because it’s so cold here, but I can also pretend, for a tiny little moment, that it’s you holding me, warmly and lovingly like before. You are saying, Don’t worry, Tyelpë, it is going to be alright, I love you, and I believe you. It is but one of my illusions, but are you yourself not an illusion, everything I know and love about you? Why cannot I then shape this illusion according to the wants of my heart? Hold on, my love; I will sneak into the kitchen to get some bread and butter, and apples, I think you like apples. I’ll put all that into a basket along with a red blanket, I know red is one of your favorite colors. The hillside is beautiful and covered with soft green grass, white flowers peeking out here and there, and we will have a nice time there, just the two of us. I will kiss your hands, and…

Oh, there you are. What would you like to share, my love? A hug? News? I look at you with hope in my eyes, but you have a whip in your hand; that’s what you bring. I would like the hillside and your soft hands in mine, but you have only pain for me today. I cry and hope; not for your mercy, as it is futile, but for a little break among the pain, so that I might dream about the hillside and the white flowers again. Is that too much to ask? Maybe it is, indeed, too much. For that, I apologize.


End file.
